


Rōnin

by passeridae



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Cybernetic Mechanic Gabriel Reyes, Cybernetics, Ex-Military Jack Morrison, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tea Atrocities, Vague Dystopia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:41:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28443354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/passeridae/pseuds/passeridae
Summary: Jack is an ex-military cyborg with proprietary parts, dishonourably discharged and cast out into the city once he was no longer of use.Gabriel is one of the few mechanics who can hack ex-mil parts, a skill that comes with a high risk of "vanishing, never to be seen again.All parts need maintenance, cybernetic or otherwise.
Relationships: Reaper | Gabriel Reyes/Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison
Comments: 7
Kudos: 40





	Rōnin

**Author's Note:**

> This AU has lived rent-free in my head for almost two years now, since the _day_ I entered the fandom. One day it'll be finished. Hopefully before it grows a life of its own and runs away.
> 
> Many thanks to petitecreame, whose lovely, lovely art of cyborg Jack was the impetus for me to start posting.

His coffee machine was broken. Gabriel stood in the middle of his dingy kitchenette and sighed the sigh of a man defeated. Sitting innocently in front of him, the coffee machine, which had until this morning been producing coffee without so much as a peep, began singing again about some brand he apparently just had to know about. 

He didn’t know who had managed to hack it, but whoever it was had better never reveal themselves to him or he was going to replace their microchips with solder. Or soap. Oh god, his coffee machine was singing about a soap brand, it needed to stop before he went insane.

Unplugging the thing, he let silence fall once again over his apartment. Well, as close as he got to silence — his machines still hummed as they puttered away, there were still the sounds of cars and chatter and the occasional gang shooting outside. Silence in the city. He lugged the thing over to one of his workbenches and thunked it down, rubbing at his eyes. It was too late tonight to deal with this, especially when he had no coffee to fuel him. The poor thing would have to wait until tomorrow, when he could pull it apart and pull out the offending microchips and replace them. With dials, perhaps. Something nice and rustic, and unhackable. Definitely something unhackable. Why had he even allowed something with microprocessors into his kitchen in the first place, he must have had his brain turned off that day. Probably serves him right.

With a sigh he sets a pot on his little camp stove and fills it with water and a handful of teabags from the yellow box he found in the back of his cupboard, clicking on the gas to let it boil. He wanted that caffeine damnit — today had been a long string of repairs and tinkering with a recalcitrant EMP that refused to turn off televisions for whatever reason, and his eyes hurt from all the detail work. He was so close to working out what that EMP was doing, it was on the tip of his tongue. A cup of tea, and perhaps a quick peek at the book he was reading, then he’d get back to it. It was only 21:00, he had time.

The pot boils fast enough and he pours some into a mug, adding sugar until it stops dissolving in the liquid, then settling on the sofa to close his eyes and just inhale the scent for a moment. His nanites buzz in the back of his mind. He’s just bringing the cup to his mouth when there’s a knock on his door.

Knocks on his door are not that unusual. He’s a mechanic, he does a lot of repair work for his community. Limbs that don’t work right because of misaligned sockets, spinal implants that are shorting. The occasional household device. But it’s not his usual office hours, and people are usually pretty good about keeping to the right times. The knock comes again, heavy and sharp, three raps one after the other.

He puts his tea down on top of a pile of parts and answers. 

The man that stands at the door looks like hell warmed over, then spat him out. His clothing’s threadbare, ripped and stained in places. Clearly not originally his. He looks up from the depths of a hoodie and Gabriel can see the feline flash of cybernetic eyes as the man asks in a gravelly voice, “Gabriel Reyes?”

Gabriel narrows his eyes, hand firm on the door. If this was another assassination attempt then he’d be really pissed. “Who wants to know?”

There’s a pregnant moment of silence as the man swallows, opens his mouth. “Sombra sent me, she... she said you could help.”

God, every time he thought he’d escaped her she found something else to throw at him. Gabriel sighs, pushes the door completely open and gestures with his head. “Guess you better come in then.”

* * *

He invites the man inside with an assessing look. He looks lean in the face. Hallowed. Skin white from lack of sun and carrying a faint undertone of spilled blood. His gait is unsteady, as if he were relearning to walk or struggling with his legs. Spinal relay issues, perhaps. The only skin that Gabriel can see is his face. Other than that he’s covered from head to toe. Interesting.

“Tea?” he asks, stepping backwards towards the kitchen. He keeps the man in his peripheral vision, watching as he haltingly makes his way towards Gabriel’s sofa. He visibly startles when Gabriel speaks, mutters out agreement before his brain seems to catch up with him and he winces. He’s either doing a bang up job of appearing defenceless, or he’s one of the less deadly people Sombra’s sent his way. Interesting, regardless. Her cases usually are.

The water’s still hot, so he pours it into another mug and lets it sit on the counter as he rummages in his kitchen. He doesn’t actually need anything from his cupboards, his sugar’s still out on the counter, it just gives him more of an opportunity to watch as his bedraggled visitor looks between the sofa and his chairs with consternation on his face, then seems to decide on the chairs surrounding Gabe’s table. To sit down, he needs to pull a hand from his pocket and the bright orange of the palms has it all click into place.

Ex-military parts. The shitty kind of mil-spec, too, the kind they give to people that they don’t like overmuch. The man had been dishonourably discharged.

What the fuck was Sombra playing with?

He shoves some sugar in the mug and brings it over to the table, detouring to pick up his own mug en route. The ceramic plonks down on the hard wood as he pulls up a chair on the opposite side of the table from the man. He’s pushed back the hood of his jacket and Gabriel can clearly see the lines of implants at the base of his skull, the ones over his temples, a sly peek of the dark, matte skin-aramid grafted into the skin of his neck. Jesus he’d been extensively converted before the military spat him out. What the hell kind of squad had he been a part of?

“So,” he asks, aiming for casual, “Sombra.” He doesn’t quite keep the growl out of his voice at her name.

The man jerks from his contemplation of his tea with a vaguely startled expression. God, he really was skittish as hell. He reaches out to take the mug, nodding jerkily. “Yes, I, uh, she sent me to you. She told me... You can help with my implants. Nobody else could.” He sips at the tea and Gabriel’s fairly certain he sees the hair on the man’s head stand up as he shudders at the taste. The handle of the mug breaks in his hand. 

Gabriel waves off the man’s apologies and sits back in his seat, drinking from his own mug. “That’s because your implants are military grade, bud. Ports don’t interface with anything civ, no manuals. They’re black boxes. Ones that tend to kill the people that work on them.” There’s a long fucking history of the mechanics that tried working on mil-spec implants dying “mysteriously”. Gabriel doesn’t know any who’re still alive anymore. It wasn’t something you broadcast, the ability to work on this sort of tech. Bad enough that Sombra knew he could do it. Worse that she’d sent someone to him. If she wanted him dead she could have at least been quick about it.

“I know,” the man snaps, stopping to take a deep breath before continuing more quietly. “I know they are. I asked around. Nobody would touch them. But then Sombra found me and she told me you’d help, said you could.” He’s tapping his fingers on the table, a soft tap-tap-tap against the wood. Nervous tic. Every ten taps or so, there’s a spasm in the synfibre and the whole hand seizes for a moment. Definitely looks like a spinal relay issue. Tricky work, time consuming. Delicate.

Gabriel looks at his guest, pathetic and curled in on himself on the other side of the table. He looks helpless now, but there's no guarantee that’ll stay the case. Gabriel has the scars to prove that ex-mil clients couldn’t be trusted.

The man takes his silence for refusal, and breaks the silence, pleading. “Please. Like this I can’t protec— I need to be operational again. I’ll pay whatever you want, just please. Anything you can do.” The man stops as abruptly as he’d started, biting at the inside of his lip. Seeming to berate himself for speaking at all.

Ex military. That could be useful, as long as Gabriel can keep him under his thumb. He needs more information on him, what he’d done, why he’d been discharged. No way he’d get it from the man opposite him, though.

“I won’t make a decision tonight,” Gabriel decides, watching as Jack’s face visibly falls at the declaration. “But you should sleep on my sofa, and I’ll let you know first thing tomorrow morning.” He leaves his mug on the table, collecting the EMP and any other potentially dangerous devices lying in easy reach. Then he, and his nanites, safely tucked under his skin, make their way into the bedroom and close the door.

* * *

> Had a tomcat turn up on my doorstep today. Mangy thing, skittish as hell. Bright orange in strange places. Your fucking name on the tag.  
> Oh I was wondering when he’d finally make it! And here I was thinking he’d gotten lost on the way... Cats are meant to have good senses of direction, aren’t they?  
> What’s your game? Why send him to me?  
> Thought you needed a new pet to play with. It’s been a while since your last one.  
> Here, you should make sure to read his paperwork. [Attached: ???? files]

Gabriel tries to send another message through, hissing under his breath as it bounces. God she was so frustrating. But at least he knew for sure it was her that had sent the man to him, rather than the whole thing being some crafted ploy by someone else. Someone less vested in his continued, living existence than Sombra. 

He resettles himself into his pillow, scanning the files she’d sent for executables. Not falling for that again, not after the mail-order bride incident. If it wasn’t for all that he owed her, he’d have started turning away her ideas of a “good distraction for him” a long time ago.

When he gets the chime indicating they’re all clear he looks through the folder. Mission reports, reports scraped from medical, his admission form. That looked interesting. 

ARMED FORCES SOLDIER APPLICATION

1\. ENTRY ROUTE  
\- Regular Army

2\. BASIC DETAILS  
Forename: John  
Preferred/Known Name: Jack  
Surname: Morrison  
Title: Mr  
DOB: XXXX-04-07  
Age: 18  
Gender: Male

3\. CONTACT DETAILS  
Address: 2227 N Mount Gilead Rd, Bloomington, Indiana, 47408

4\. NATIONALITY  
Current Nationality: American  
Have you lived in America continuously for the last 5 years?: yes

5\. CURRENT SITUATION  
\- Secondary School

6\. EDUCATION, QUALIFICATIONS AND SKILLS  
n/a

7\. PERSONAL DETAILS  
National Identity: American  
Ethnic Background: Any White  
Religion: Catholic

Marital Status: Single  
Dependants: None

Do you meet basic medical and physical requirements (Appendix 1): yes  
Height: 185cm  
Weight: 98kg  
Can you swim?: yes

Do you hold a driving license?: yes  
What type?: full

8\. PREVIOUS OR CURRENT MILITARY APPLICATIONS OR SERVICE  
n/a

9\. INTERESTS, ORGANISATIONS AND POSITIONS OF RESPONSIBILITY  
Sports/Activity or interest:  
Track Silver at state competition  
Golf Current handicap of 20  
Chess Captain of school chess team

Scouts:  
Rank of Eagle Scout  
Scout Project: Designed and ran a free, week-long, holiday football camp for 180 children, particularly those of low-income parents.  
Led scout troops as assistant and then sole leader for the past two years.

10\. REFEREES  
Arlen Jones, Scout Leader  
323 E Winslow Rd, Bloomington, Indiana, 47408  
(812) 371 9388  
Known for: 4 years

Mr John Morrison, Father  
Address: 2227 N Mount Gilead Rd, Bloomington, Indiana, 47408  
(812) 855 2934  
Known for: 18 years

...

Gabriel closes the document at that point. The rest of it would be legal jargon about how the information was safe and other such lies. Jack Morrison. A regular boy scout on his application form. In a very literal sense, god he was still a child when they snapped him up. How much had he changed over the past fifteen years? The man on his sofa definitely didn’t look the part any more. 

He still sends nanites off to act as alarms if Jack tries anything during the night. Sets them up at various intervals between the sofa and his bedroom door, programmed to meddle with Jack’s tech, slow him down. Turns on the heat tracking in his living room, so the man can’t meddle with anything unnoticed while Gabe’s asleep. That done, he lets himself settle properly into bed.

As he starts to drift off, Gabriel can’t help but snort. Chess, huh. That wasn’t what he expected at all.


End file.
